


Remnants of Yesterday's Wakefulness

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Hands, Hope, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, References to Depression, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 18:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: Morning finds Grantaire in a way that is not unfamiliar, with his face buried in his arms and a slow pounding in his temples, the steady onslaught of wrongness that always seemed to close over him upon waking, like breaking through the surface of water to find that perhaps it would have been better to have stayed below and drowned.His head hurts, from wine and the uncomfortable pillow of his own forearms, but it's more than pain that leaves him feeling hollow, resounding with a sound that isn't.“Grantaire.” And there it is again, the voice, his name, the very reason he is awake again at all.





	Remnants of Yesterday's Wakefulness

Grantaire often finds morning to be something of an enigma. He’s out of Morpheus's arms and directly into the fire or curled into a full body grimace, still fuzzy with the remnants of yesterday's wakefulness. 

Today, morning finds Grantaire in a way that is not unfamiliar, with his face buried in his arms and a slow pounding in his temples, the steady onslaught of wrongness that always seemed to close over him upon waking, like breaking through the surface of water to find that perhaps it would have been better to have stayed below and drowned. 

His head hurts, from wine and the uncomfortable pillow of his own forearms, but it's more than pain that leaves him feeling hollow, resounding with a sound that isn't. 

“Grantaire.” And there it is again, the voice, his name, the very reason he is awake again at all. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, along with the name, and he tries his best to shake it off. It returns, with another at his elbow, and the hands start to pull him up, away from the table. 

“Stop," he tries to say, but the word catches in his throat and it tastes like longing, like the kind of shame that comes along with the embarrassment of dealing with himself for any prolonged amount of time. 

“Grantaire, wake up.” It’s a command and it hits Grantaire in the very depths of his hungover, half-awake soul. 

He opens his eyes. 

Immediately, the hands let go and they leave behind a feeling of space, emptiness where moments before there was connection. 

Grantaire blinks up into what already promises to be too early of a morning and he's blinded by more than sun when he sees who it is that has woken him. Enjolras is standing next to his chair, hovering, Grantaire might say, if he were anyone else. Grantaire has caught him in the act of tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and the gentle simplicity of the gesture is already too much for him.

He runs both hands over his face, tries to form the dull ache of his thoughts into anything resembling coherency. 

He knows he should say something to excuse his presence, still dressed in last night’s clothes with last night’s alcohol heavy on his tongue and the kind of stiffness in all of his joints that came along with sleeping with his head on the cold wood of the Musain’s tables. It’s hardly the first time Grantaire has found himself in this particular situation, but usually he wakes up alone, disoriented and miserable and barely able to fight off the loneliness. 

Now he mainly feels confused. Something to do with humours, Grantaire supposes, or the kind of alignments Joly always warns him about.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks. There’s concern in his tone and more than a hint of his own confusion. It surprises Grantaire, to hear that concern directed at himself. 

He often thinks that somewhere, in the depths of Enjolras’s seriousness, is a quality that makes places safe. And Enjolras seems to have permeated the back room with it already, with the kind of calm that seeps into Grantaire's bones and despite himself, he starts to relax. 

The feeling scares him, like a faerie realm or a thing divine, it's too perfect for anyone like him to belong to. 

Grantaire shrugs in response and before he realizes what’s happening, Enjolras is kneeling down next to Grantaire’s chair, bringing himself down to just below eye level. His hand is back on Grantaire's shoulder and Grantaire finds that he can’t look at him anymore. He focuses on Enjolras’s collarbone instead, the hint of it just below the neckline of his shirt and untied cravat. 

Every part of him is perfectly carved, as if from some other medium than skin, and sometimes it makes Grantaire want to cry. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, quiet but pressing. 

His hand moves, from Grantaire’s shoulder to his cheek and for a single, breathtaking second, Enjolras’s fingers rest there, long and cool and feather-light against the too-hot skin of Grantaire’s face; it feels like relief. The hand pushes him ever so slightly, moving Grantaire’s chin up so he has no choice but to meet Enjolras’s eyes. 

So, he does, stares into the dark depths of them, noticing the circles starting to form underneath them and thinking, with an unusual surge of gentleness, that Enjolras is far too young to look so tired. 

Slowly, and more desperate than he cares to admit not to dislodge Enjolras’s hand on his cheek, Grantaire shakes his head. 

He intends it to be an answer: he’s not alright, he hasn’t been anywhere close for far too long now, but it’s also a caution for Enjolras not to get too close, not to go through with focusing the entirety of his heavy attention on Grantaire all at once, because nothing good ever seems to happen to the people who get close to Grantaire. It's A curse, a perfect punishment for his own personal tragedy. Already, he can see that Enjolras is heading down a path that no one can stop and Grantaire is nothing but terrified at the prospect of his own involvement in any of Enjolras’s ideals. 

But before he can follow that line of thought any further, Enjolras’s fingers have moved around to cup the back of his head. He tugs Grantaire towards him with a gentle firmness that leaves no room for questions or for the slow spiral of early morning panic and before Grantaire fully realises what’s happening, his forehead is resting heavily against Enjolras’s shoulder, and Enjolras’s hand is still wrapped around the back of his head. It’s a hug, he supposes, awkwardly angled and full of the tension that comes along with pushing against never-established boundaries, but Grantaire feels inexplicably like he can breathe again for the first time in days. 

Enjolras, who is so often full of enthusiasm and never seems short of a stoic kind of encouragement, is silent as his other hand comes to rest against Grantaire’s back. His thumb strokes a few small circles over Grantaire’s shoulder blade before it stills. 

Grantaire leans farther out of his chair, daring to put more of his weight against Enjolras, who supports him without a word. He feels the cool skin of Enjolras’s neck against his temple as he pushes closer, can’t help but revel in the feeling of strength all around him. 

After a moment, Grantaire hears a noise, or he supposes he does, he can't quite be sure because all of his senses have grown vague in the face of his new hyper-awareness, with Enjolras all around him, relaxing into the softness of him, feeling Enjolras’s fingers start to tangle gently in his unwashed hair. It sounds like voices, approaching from the front of the cafe, and although he already expects it, he feels a pang of loss when Enjolras start to pull away. 

Grantaire braces himself for the emptiness again, but surprisingly, Enjolras doesn’t let go of him. Instead, he moves Grantaire back up into a sitting position, hands still heavy on his shoulder and the back of his neck, still holding him up. 

Grantaire knows that he needs to give Enjolras something of an apology, before the moment is interrupted or before he destroys their tentative intimacy with his own carelessness. Or maybe it should be closer to supplication because Enjolras is so clearly made from pieces of divinity, where Grantaire himself is something base. Enjolras has only just shown him a piece of that divinity, leaving him blinded, and with a lack of any other forms of misguided sacrifice available, he apologizes. 

“Enjolras, I don’t mean to keep you,” his voice is rougher than he intends, but he pushes on. “I’m sorry. In the future I’ll be sure to at least leave the seat of your revolution before I drink myself to death for it.” 

It’s too much for so early in the morning and he’s not ready to brace himself for whatever anger he’s provoked yet, with his badly thought-through outburst. But, surprisingly, it doesn’t make Enjolras let go of him. Instead, his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the back of Grantaire’s neck. 

“I’ve slept here before myself. Not by intention, of course, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” And then, softer, sheepishly, “Please don’t tell Combeferre.” 

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, so wordlessly grateful that all he can think to say in response is, “I’m always ashamed.” 

Enjolras shakes his head and if Grantaire didn’t know better, he would have said he looks almost fond. 

The voices in the hallway are louder, combined with footsteps. Enjolras glances back towards the doorway and moves to stand and his hand, still tight on Grantaire’s shoulder, moves with him, forcing Grantaire upright alongside him. 

Grantaire stumbles, throws out his own hand to catch himself on the table, sheepishly taps the chipped wood with one finger. 

He can feel Enjolras studying him from the now small gulf of space between them. He tries to think of something, anything to lighten the mood, comes up short. It is Enjolras who breaks the silence. 

“Go home, Grantaire,” Enjolras says and with it, the moment is broken. Of course, Grantaire knows, this is what Enjolras wants - for Grantaire to be long gone. But he must be worse at hiding his emotions than he thinks because Enjolras puts a hand on his arm before Grantaire can turn away again. “I don’t mean indefinitely. It just seems like you could use a few hours of sleep that aren’t at a table.” 

“No need to worry about me,” Grantaire quips, so half-hearted that he’s certain Enjolras will know it lacks bite. “I need very little sleep, I am fueled only by vapours: alcohol and your revolutionary enthusiasm.” 

As he expected, Enjolras rolls his eyes and that in itself is something new, that he can expect anything of Enjolras and it will come true. 

“I hope I’ll see you tonight,” Enjolras says, and then, with the smallest hint of a smile in his eyes. “Don’t make me regret that hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> literally nothing happens except for hugs, i'm so sorry. hmu on tumblr if you want to talk about these sad (happy??) perfect boys [tumblr](https://williamvapespeare.tumblr.com/)


End file.
